


Sharing is Caring

by Emmitha



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Fluff, Gay Panic, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mid-season 3, Pining, Sweaters, The Lonely - Freeform, before the unknowing, no beta we die like gerry, no communicating we rely on intricate rituals, second chapter is post 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22644277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmitha/pseuds/Emmitha
Summary: Jon shows up to work in one of Martin's sweaters one day and Martin struggles to cope.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 94
Kudos: 774





	1. Chapter 1

The thing was.

  
_The thing was._

  
The thing was, Martin had never been particularly possessive. His role in his past relationships and been of caregiver, nurturer. It had led to more than one conversation (re: shouting match) where his partner at the time told Martin than he was making them feel smothered or—worse still— _mothered_ and that was most certainly not what they were looking for in a relationship.

  
And Martin would try, he would, but years of trying to earn his mother’s, his teacher’s, his _anyone’s_ , affection by being helpful made it a difficult habit to break. He would inevitably return to his hovering, stifling ways, and his partners would eventually leave. Sometimes they would say it was just a break, just to get some space, some air, to breathe. But they usually stopped returning his calls, too.

  
So, yes. Martin maybe focused a little too hard on others, on helping, on caring. But possessiveness had never really been Martin’s thing.

  
So when he saw Jon wandering out of his office one day, eyes glued to a statement, and wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, Martin couldn’t immediately place the odd twinge in his stomach.

  
“What’s the face?” Martin jumped, his eyes darting from Jon’s back, retreating down the hall, to Tim’s frowning face at his side.

  
“What?”

  
Tim huffed and made a vague gesture. “The face. I’ve watched you stare at Jon for over three years, I am uncomfortably aware of what your face looks like when you’re pining. This is new.”

  
“I-I’m not,” Martin sputtered, terribly aware of how red his face was turning. “I don-I don’t pine, I-I…”

  
Tim snorted, clearly not impressed, and Martin felt a renewed rush of mortification and a slight stab of anger. The Tim he first met would have teased Martin over his, his slight attraction (re: complete adoration) of Jon. Not sneered at him. Not looked at him with something akin to disgust.

  
“Sure,” Tim said, clearly brushing off Martin’s excuse. “Still though. Why are you looking at our resident monster like he’s a math problem?”

  
Martin glanced back towards the hall Jon had disappeared down, ignoring the monster jab, and frowning as he turned his thoughts back towards the sight of Jon, who stood a good half-foot shorter than Martin, engulfed in Martin’s olive green, somewhat ratty sweater.

  
“He, uh. He was wearing my sweater.”

  
Tim raised an eyebrow, his permanently pissed-off expression lifting for a moment to be replaced by one of genuine surprise. “What, you finally slept with him?”

  
The blood rushed to Martin’s face so quickly that he actually wobbled for a moment on bloodless legs. “What? No, no! Why would—why would you even, even think—”

  
Tim shrugged, a sneer slowly curling over his lips once more. “Dunno. Figured you must’ve taken him back to yours. How else did he get a hold of your clothes?”

  
“I, uh…” Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “I never really, uh, took all my stuff back? After I moved out of the Archives? After Prentiss,” Martin added, at Tim’s blank look. “I mean, with everything…everything that happened, I don’t know, I guess it made sense to just leave a few things here? In case I ever…” _'In case I was ever targeted by some sort of eldritch fear monster again and forced to live in the dubious protection of the Archives._ “…in case.”

  
“What’s happening?” Melanie asked, wandering over to them with a mug of tea.

  
“Boss’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters.”

  
Melanie frowned at Martin. “You two shagged?”

  
Martin started spluttering again.

  
“Nah, apparently Martin keeps a go bag here in case something decides to kill him again,” Tim clarified over Martin’s stuttering.

  
Melanie nodded. “Oh, yeah, makes sense, then. Jon’s been claiming any piece of clothing left unattended for more than forty-five minutes since he got back. Pretty sure he stole my Ghost Hunt UK hoodie when I went to the bathroom the other day. Man’s been completely feral since he got back from the States.”

  
Tim shook his head. “Nah, feral was last year, when he was stalking us.”

  
“He _stalked_ you?” Melanie sounded somehow delighted, and Martin used the opportunity to slip away from the two and back to his desk.

  
Jon had been living in the Archives since getting back. Between his stint as a murder suspect, and his new—and well-founded—paranoia of being kidnapped, he’d lost his flat and decided not to bother getting a new one. Elias didn’t seem to much care if Jon was kidnapped again, but the Archives seemed to offer some measure of protection, at least, so long as an avatar of the corruption or the spiral wasn’t breaking in and wreaking havoc.

  
Not really all that comforting, honestly.

  
But now that Martin thought about it, Jon hadn’t had any bags with him when he’d shown back up to work. Not that Martin had seen, anyway. And he had been wearing an odd assortment of novelty t-shirts of late.

  
He must not have any of his own clothes, Martin mused, tapping a pen against his desk. Jon wandered back past at that moment, eyes still on his statement. Martin froze, his eyes tracking the other man, taking in the drape of the wool against a thin frame, slipping off one shoulder, and rolled haphazardly around the wrists. Jon disappeared into his office and Martin sucked in a ragged breath.

  
Oh, god, he _liked_ seeing Jon in his clothes. Liked it way more than he should, in a way that he never had with other men. Christ, he didn’t even know that he’d ever seen any of his exes wearing his clothes. How was he supposed to handle this every day?

  
Martin thought of the duffel bag he’d left there—shirts, jeans, sweaters, jackets, _Christ_ , underwear—

  
Martin stood abruptly and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and hyperventilate a little.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Martin would come into work to find Jon wearing some item of clothing that had formerly belonged to Martin. Sweaters, mostly, as the pants really would have been much too large, though Martin did see Jon in one of his old ratty t-shirts one morning before he pulled on a sweater—also Martin’s.

  
Every time Martin saw Jon that week, he felt that same rush of attraction, of possessiveness, that he had the first time, and it showed no signs of lessening. It made being in the same room as Jon rather uncomfortable for Martin, though if Jon noticed, he showed absolutely no sign of it. Martin didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Though, when he caught sign of Jon holding a cup of tea with one of Martin’s sweaters’ sleeves engulfing his hands entirely, he decided he was grateful. He was barely hanging on to his sanity at this point as things were—if Jon ever acknowledged how red Martin got whenever Jon entered a room, Martin was fairly certain he’d combust as easily as if the desolation had targeted him.

  
Finally, on the Thursday the week following Jon first wearing Martin’s clothes, Martin entered the Archives to find Jon in a What the Ghost hoodie, bickering with Tim, and not a single stitch of clothing that had once belonged to Martin on him.

  
(That Martin could see, anyway. He was doing his very best not to entertain the thought that Jon might have taken to wearing the boxers he’d left there, too. They would have been too big. They _would_ have.)

  
(He thought about it, anyway.)

  
Martin expected to feel relieved. But instead he felt an odd sort of…loss. It was as if he’d had some sort of, of claim to Jon, while they’d been—somewhat—sharing clothes. Now…

  
Martin was quiet that day, not that anyone noticed. Things were tense in the Archives, everyone caught up in their own traumas and tragedies. So when Martin left his jacket in the Archives that night, no one noticed.


	2. Chapter 2

Coming out of the Lonely was…a long process. Sure, walking out of it, his clammy hand clasped firmly in Jon’s, was a relatively quick—if not simple—process. But for all that Martin had been able to focus so clearly on Jon’s face for those few moments when Jon had called him from the fog, Martin found it rather hard to focus, now.

The fog was gone, the beach was gone, but Martin…well, he wasn’t quite _there_ , was the problem. It came and it went, and it mostly went for a while.

He was in the tunnels, following Jon, who still held his hand, and talked at him rather urgently, though Martin had no clue what he was saying.

Then he was in his flat, and Jon was muttering to himself and shoving things into a bag, and—this seemed like it might be important—how had Jon known where he lived?

And then he was on a train, his head on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon was holding his hand again, and murmuring quietly, though Martin still wasn’t sure what he was saying.

And then they were in a cottage, Jon pulling Martin onto a bed, and saying “Get some rest now, Martin. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

It got better, after that. He woke up the next morning, and Jon was indeed still there, sitting against the headboard and staring out the window. He smiled at Martin when Martin shifted, and Jon realized that he was awake.

Jon was gentle with Martin those first few days. Martin…didn’t know what to make of it, really. He was still sort of…fuzzy, still not all the way there. But he would sit in the kitchen, eyes trailing Jon has he moved around the kitchen with an odd, bursting sort of energy that spoke of repressed panic and fear, making breakfast or tea or lunch or whatever. Or they would sit in the living room. Sometimes Jon would read to Martin from the small collection of books in the cottage (Daisey’s he would later find out, and if that didn’t raise some questions), holding his hand again. They started taking short walks around the countryside, and Martin started making quiet comments about the green of the fields or the shaggy cows they came across.

Slowly, Martin started to come back to himself. The smile Jon gave him the first time Martin offered to make tea…well, it was almost enough to send Martin back to his dazed silence.

But as Martin came back to himself and started taking in his new surroundings (and Jon always seemed especially pleased when Martin cared enough to ask a question about where they were or why Daisey even had this place) he started noticing something.

Jon was wearing his clothes again.

Martin was fairly certain that Jon had brought his own things, had vague memories of Jon packing in a small and sparsely furnished flat, and it wasn’t like he was wearing exclusively Martin’s clothes. He had his own pants, and Martin had seen him in boxers that definitely weren’t Martin’s (though he did feel a slight lurch as that old daydream came back to him). But every morning, Jon would emerge from the bathroom with freshly showered hair and wearing one of Martin’s sweaters.

It was a week before Martin said anything.

They’d settled into a rhythm. Martin would make breakfast and tea while Jon showered. Jon would wander into the kitchen just as Martin was divvying up the eggs and sausage, his wet hair leaving a dark patch on whichever sweater he was wearing that day.

That morning, it was the same olive green one Martin had first seen him wear what felt like so long ago. Martin stared at the sweater for a moment, frozen with frying pan in hand. He’d never reclaimed any of the clothes from the Archive, leaving them instead for Jon, and then for the moths to feast on while Jon had been in the coma.

“What?” Jon asked, settling at the kitchen table and frowning as Martin continued to stare.

“That’s my sweater,” Martin blurted, then went red.

Jon blinked and looked down. Martin thought maybe he was checking for a moment, that he hadn’t realized, but as he looked, he realized Jon’s ears had gone darker with a flush. “Uh, yes, I uh, suppose it is,” Jon muttered into his collar. Into Martin’s collar. He was wearing Martin’s sweater.

Martin sat the frying pan down, the ache in his wrist reminding him he still held it. The two men were silent for an agonizing minute. Jon still hadn’t looked up and Martin had no clue how he was supposed to move forward.

“I was wondering if you’d notice,” Jon said at last, still not meeting Martin’s eye.

Martin blinked rapidly for a moment. “What?”

Jon glanced up, then back down. “I’ve been wearing your sweaters for days, now.” He snorted. “Though, I’ve had this one so long it’s basically mine.”

Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. “ _What?_ ”

Jon started toying with the hem of the sweater in question, drawing Martin’s eyes. “You, ah, seemed to like it. Before. When I wore your clothes. In the Archives.”

Jon was definitely blushing now, even his dark skin wasn’t able to completely hide it.

“You _knew_?” Martin managed. He remembered his thoughts of possible combustion back when Jon had first started wearing his clothes and wondered with no small amount of panic if that was actually possible.

“Really, Martin,” Jon huffed with some of his old impatience, though Martin could hear the nerves in it, too. “You went beet red every time I walked into a room then made some bumbling excuse and ran away. Of course I noticed.” He looked up at Martin again. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not _completely_ oblivious.”

_‘Could have fooled me,’_ Martin thought faintly. “So then why…”

“Why did I keep doing it?” Martin nodded mutely. Jon glanced down, then back up again, holding eye contact with Martin as he said, “Because you liked it.”

Martin felt all the air leave his lungs rather explosively. He ran over the facts in his mind, trying to make everything make sense. Jon had worn his clothes specifically because he knew Martin liked it. Jon had kept at least one of his sweaters, if not more. Jon had started wearing his clothes again, here, in Scotland, and had apparently been waiting to see if Martin would notice.

“Is that…is that okay?” Jon asked. Whatever bravado he’d had a moment before seemed to have fled. He hunched his shoulders a bit, the sweater sliding off one to reveal a thin, dark shoulder pitted with scars.

“Is that…” Martin started. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s uh, it’s…yeah. It’s okay. I. Um.”

Jon was watching him intently again, shoulders lowering from their defensive stance near his ears. “Good,” he decided after a moment. “I quite like wearing your clothes.” Martin nodded, still processing. They were quiet for a moment. “I quite like you,” Jon added into the silence. “I’m rather in love with you, I think.”

Martin grabbed the counter for support. “Oh,” he managed. “Oh. Uh. Good. Good, yeah, uh. Me, uh, me too.” He shook himself. “Me, too. I love you, too.”

Jon grinned and it was blinding. Martin found himself grinning back. Jon loved him. Jon loved him and he was wearing Martin’s sweater.

Martin cleared his throat. “So, uh, breakfast?”

**Author's Note:**

> Just going to pour as much fluff into this hiatus as possible before season 5 up and kills me.


End file.
